


For Want of a Stepladder

by iam93percentstardust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iam93percentstardust/pseuds/iam93percentstardust
Summary: You are working on baking cookies but are too short to reach some of the ingredients. Dean steps in to help but you aren't exactly pleased with his help and can’t figure out why he would care enough to help.





	For Want of a Stepladder

You were standing on the counter for the third time today.

“Let’s see,” you murmured, running your finger down the row of spices. “Cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon…Ah, cinnamon!” You grabbed it and hopped back down to the floor. You set the cinnamon down on the counter and checked the recipe for your next ingredient. Ginger. You swore softly, remembering seeing a container of ginger next to the cinnamon.

Carefully, you hopped back up onto the counter and stood up, facing the spice rack.

“Damn the Men of Letters for never purchasing a step stool,” you muttered, reaching for the ginger.

A calloused hand reached out and snagged the ginger before you can grab it.

You sighed and, without turning around, said, “I’m short, not incompetent, Dean Winchester.” You jumped back down and turned to face the grinning hunter. He tossed the ginger from hand to hand, the smug bastard.

“I know,” he said evenly.

“Great.” You held out your hand. “Then give me the ginger.”

Dean shrugged and tossed the container to you. You placed it next to the cinnamon and checked the recipe.

“Flour,” you mused. Now, flour was at the top of the pantry so if you climbed the shelves… You wheel around and headed for the pantry, trying to make it seem as though you weren’t going to climb the shelves like you would climb a tree.

He followed you into the pantry. You putter around for a few seconds, acting like you were looking for the flour on a lower shelf so Dean would maybe leave. It doesn’t seem to work. You gave up the charade and place one foot on the first shelf, ready to boost yourself up.

But, before you could get the next foot up, Dean’s hand reached out to grab the flour. You stepped back down, more than a little put-pout at his insistence on helping. Snatching the flour from his out-stretched hand, you marched back to the counter and plopped the flour down next to the cinnamon and ginger.

You decided that the best course of action was to simply ignore Dean. He would eventually tire of his little game and wander off to mess with Sam, leaving you to bake in peace. Yes, that would work.

Running your finger down the list of ingredients, you noted which ones were on lower shelves and set out to locate those. You grabbed the milk and turned to place it next to the flour.

The brown sugar was already there.

You glanced at Dean, superstitious. He didn’t seem to have moved from his spot but you’d seen him move lightning quick to take down a vamp. You didn’t doubt for one second that he could have darted across the kitchen to get the brown sugar before you turned back.

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate his help. Well, actually, it was. All your life, people had taken one look at your tiny stature and decided that all you were good for was looking adorable. You were clearly incapable of doing anything for yourself. Most people said that there was nothing they couldn’t do. For you apparently, there was nothing you could do. When you’d run into the Winchesters and decided to join them, you’d made it clear that anything they could do, you could do as well. And it had worked.

Until today.

You were determined to continue with your plan of ignoring Dean so you put down the milk and went back to the refrigerator to get the butter. Turning back, you saw that the vanilla--another high-placed item--rested on the counter.

You took one deep breath and then another. Clearly, ignoring Dean was not working. So, you promptly changed your plan. You dragged a chair over in front of Dean. He watched you, confused. You moved as though to stand on it but decided that it wasn’t tall enough. Instead, you fetched a phone book (why the Winchesters still had a phone book was beyond you) and placed it on top of the chair. You scrambled up, finding yourself face-to-face with Dean Winchester.

For a moment, you were silent. You’d known he was gorgeous and you’d been attracted to him for a while. Hell, that was why you had retreated to the kitchen. You’d always baked when you were flustered and you were nothing if not flustered around Dean.

Finally finding your voice, you snapped, “Look, let me make one thing perfectly clear. My height is not indicative of my competence. When I joined you, I said that I was just as capable as you. I meant it. Now I don’t know why your brain seems to think that I can’t do anything but it needs to stop. I am perfectly able to take care of myself, thank you.”

You meant to continue your tirade but abruptly realized that you had unconsciously moved closer to Dean. The two of your were almost nose-to-nose. Your chests nearly brushed each other. To make matters worse, Dean’s eyes were most certainly not on your face. You opened your mouth to remind Dean of where your eyes were and took two steps backward to put some space between you two.

You’d forgotten you were standing on a phone book.

Your foot slipped off the book and you toppled backwards. Your weight hit the back of the chair. It fell with you. You closed your eyes and waited for the inevitable crash.

It didn’t come.

Not for you, anyway. The book and chair fell to the floor with a crash to wake the dead. But Dean’s arm snaked around your waist and held you upright.

He swung you around to deposit you on the edge of the counter he’d just been leaning against. Unconsciously, you opened your legs to invite him in. Dean moved into that space immediately. You opened your eyes to see that he looked a little worried.

“Are you okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Good.” Dean’s expression changed from one of concern to one of irritation. “Now, you listen to me. It is okay to admit you need help sometimes. I get it. You need to assert your independence after never having any. I felt the same way after Dad died. But being incompetent and admitting you need help are two different things. You don’t need to be stupid about it. What if you slip from one of the shelves and me and Sam aren’t here? What if you forget you’re on a counter like you just did?”

“Why do you care?” you interrupted.

Dean stared at you. You squirmed under the intensity. “Do you really not get it?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned in and gently kissed you.

You were too startled to respond. Dean pulled back before you could. A moment later, Sam raced into the room.

He took in the chair on the floor and you on the counter. “What happened?”

“Just a cooking mistake,” Dean replied, not taking his eyes off you. Sam looked skeptical but he nodded and went to leave. “I’ll get you a stepladder,” Dean said quietly, moving to pull away from you.

Your hand shot out to hold on to his shoulder, stopping him from moving. You shook your head. “No need. I’ve got you.”


End file.
